CHAPTER IV

I never saw Eva looking better than she did that night. I lounged around the room until I came to her crowd, attached myself there, and did some heavy flirting. I asked her to take a moonlight stroll, but her aunt overheard me and gave her a look, upon which she said the air outside was too cool. I saw the play was to be above-board. Aunt Stunner had taken matters into her own hands, and the game had commenced in earnest. Mr. David Todd, Jr., was there, and Eva paid him a good deal of attention: I did not like it.

Presently she went off to dance with him, and Aunt Stunner sat down by me. Fanning herself energetically, she said in a confidential tone, "Eva is looking sweetly to-night: don't you think so, Mr. Highrank?"

"Miss Eva always looks jolly," I said shortly. I did not want to talk to the old lady.

"Mr. Todd appears to think so too," she went on with a nod and a knowing look at me. Evidently she was playing Todd against Highrank.

"Mr. David Todd, Jr.?" I asked languidly: "he has thirty thousand a year, hasn't he?"

She looked at me sharply for an instant, then smiled and said, "How should I know, dear Mr. Highrank? It is his rare personal merit that pleases me. I own I am happy to see him so attentive to the child for her sake. She is so impulsive and innocent, so likely to fancy a younger, more dashing kind of man"—here she glanced at me—"that I acknowledge I do feel anxious to have her settled happily. Not but that some young men are exceptions," she continued amiably, "and make excellent husbands."

"There are two classes of men," I remarked quietly. "They can be divided into those who make good husbands and those who don't. Wealthy men are the most superior, and are best fitted to fill the situation."

"I agree with you entirely: you are a very sensible young man," enthusiastically replied the old lady, not recognizing the quotation.

We talked on until Eva came back: then I claimed the next waltz, and decided I would carry her off from Todd. I pressed her hand, but she would not respond: it was plain she was obeying orders.

"Won't you walk with me?" I whispered as we were near an open window in a pause of the dance.

"I can't, Charley—indeed I can't," as I tried to draw her outside: "I will explain another time."

"You are very cruel," I continued in the same undertone.

"You don't care if I am," she said a little bitterly.

"As if I do not care when you use me badly! Won't you tell me what is the matter?" I asked tenderly.

"Oh, Mr. Highrank, I am so unhappy!" she whispered.

"Why so, my dear?" No one could help calling Eva "my dear"; besides, we were hidden by the heavy window curtain and no one overheard us.

"I—I—am going to be married," she said.

"It appears to me that ought to make you particularly merry, oughtn't it?"

"But it don't," she answered, sighing.

"Why not, you foolish girl?"

"Oh, everything is so different from what I expected."

"In what way?"

"W-h-y," she answered slowly, "I thought it would be romantic, and that he would ask me in the moonlight."

"Like to-night, for instance?" I said, taking her hand and drawing her through the low window on to the piazza.

"Yes," she replied, "and instead of that—"

Well, instead of that?" I repeated, seeing she paused.

"Instead of that, it was in that old parlor of ours. I have never had a nice time since we took it two weeks ago, odious green place! I detest green furniture; it is so unbecoming," she said pathetically.

"And who is the happy dog—I mean gentleman'—Eva? I may call you Eva, just for this evening yet, mayn't I?"

"I don't care if—if—Oh my! what a name! Charley, did you ever hear such a dreadful name as David?"

"What! old Todd? It isn't old Todd?" I asked, laughing.

"It is very unkind of you to laugh when you know I must marry him."

"I won't laugh," I said, putting her arm in mine and walking down the verandah. "Come, sit on this sofa and tell me all about it."

"Well," she said, half pouting and half crying, "I must marry some one this season—both mamma and auntie say so—and I can't marry Ned."

"Ned Hardcash? You don't mean to say he was spooney on you?"

"Yes he was, but I told him he was too poor."

"You are very reasonable, Eva."

"You need not talk that way. Mamma would not hear of it. I could not let him ask her, for she would have been so angry, and she and auntie would have scolded me; and you don't know how fearfully auntie can abuse one when she begins."

"How did Ned take your answer?"

"Oh, he just went away, and did not care a bit, and I have not seen him since."

"He did not care?" thinking I now had the clew to Ned's savage manner for the week past. "When did it happen?"

"I can't exactly remember: it was soon after we took the parlor. Auntie would not let me invite him there, and he got angry and jealous of Mr. Todd, who was with me all the time, and—"

"But that showed he loved you, don't you think so?"

"Well, perhaps he did a little: he told me if I Would trust him he would not let mamma or auntie scold; but you know that was nonsense. I would like to see any one prevent them if they want to do it. And he hadn't any money, and we should have starved: I told him so. Then he said there was no danger of that: he could manage to keep the wolf from the door. I knew of course that be could easily keep wolves away, for there are none here, and I would not live in that horrid West; but that would not prevent us starving: auntie said we would starve."

"Poor Ned!" I murmured.

"You pity poor Ned," said she, now sobbing, "but you don't pity poor me at all, and I am the most wretched."

"Come, don't cry, Eva," I said, putting my arm around her: it was very dark in that corner, and I knew Eva would not fuss about it, as a certain other person did not long ago. "What shall I do for you, my dear? Do you want Ned back? I'll tell him and make it up between you: shall I?"

"No, no! He is so cross and fierce that I should be afraid of him: he was dreadfully ill-tempered when he left me that night."

"But that was because he loved you, Eva."

"When people love me I don't want them to be disagreeable: I should not want to vex any one if I loved him."

"You will make a dear, kind, amiable little wife, I know."

"But I don't want to marry Mr. Todd," she said, still sobbing on my shoulder. "Oh, Charley, what shall I do?"

Could I find a lovelier, more tender, sweeter wife than the girl now in my arms? My ideas of affectionate women had changed, dating from about two weeks back, and the conduct of Miss Blanche, who would neither see me nor speak to me since that afternoon, strengthened me in the opinion that a woman is best with some heart. Was it any wonder, then, that I decided on the spot to answer Eva's question of "Charley, what shall I do?" by saying "Marry me, my dear: 'tis the only way I see for you to get out of the scrape"? Just as my resolve became fixed I heard footsteps near. In another moment, scarcely giving Eva time to wipe her eyes, those three sisters, the Greys, came trooping by, and stopped in front of us.

"Spooning as usual?" remarked one of them to me.

"Miss Eva, won't you ask Mr. Todd to give him a lesson in proposing? I don't believe he knows how to do it. A deplorable state of ignorance!" said another.

A merry group soon joined them, and I did not get another chance that evening. However, I went to my room happy, for I knew I should be successful on the morrow. Eva loved me: her mother had said as much when I overheard her in the arbor on the mountain-side, and I knew Aunt Stunner would have no objection, as my income exceeded Todd's. In an easy-chair by the open window I thought over my resolution, and counted myself a fortunate man. In the midst of this reverie the door burst open, shut with a bang, and Ned Hardcash threw himself on a fauteuil opposite me.

"What's up now?" I cried. "Has Harry Basset lost?" Ned was always deep on the turf, and I could think of nothing else that would cut him up so much.

"D—n Harry Basset! I say, Charley, haven't you some brandy?"

"Too hot for brandy to-night," I said: "take some of this," pushing him a bottle.

"Stuff!" and he looked at it contemptuously. "If you can't treat a poor devil more like a man when he comes, he will go;" and he rose with a jerk.

"Sit down, old fellow! or rather go to that closet and get what you want—enough there for a night or two."

He looked the worse for hard drink already, but of course I could not refuse him if he wanted it. It is true politeness, if your friend wants to commit suicide, to sharpen the razor for him and ask no questions. I leaned back while he mixed a glass with seltzer and drank it greedily. Finally, when he looked more composed, I said, "I want to ask you a question, Ned." I thought of Blanche Furnaval's strange conduct on seeing Ned before me, and resolved to ask him if he could explain it. "I believe you know something about the queer ways of women. Can you tell—"

"Look here, Charley," he broke out savagely: "I want one thing understood. You are always teasing and bothering about the women; and as you have not got a piece of flesh as big as a pea for a heart, you will never understand anything about them; so, if you don't want to set me crazy, just let that subject down while I am here."

"It's a woman, then," I said, forgetting in my surprise to be angry. "Cheer up, old boy! You will soon get over it: no woman's worth it."

"Not to you, perhaps, but it may be the contrary with me," he answered moodily.

There was a long silence. I smoked, he drank: at last I broke it by saying unconsciously, "She is a dear little thing." My thoughts had reverted to Eva.

"Ah, you saw it?" cried Ned eagerly. "Then I can talk to you about it. You may well say she is a dear little thing. She is an angel—too good for a fellow like me. But the poor child dotes on me: that is the hardest part of the cursed thing. How she laid her head on my shoulder and cried, and said she did not want to marry that other fellow, d—n him! It almost broke my heart," he continued dejectedly, "and it is not of the stuff that breaks easily. I told her I would take her off and we would run for it, though Heaven knows what we should do afterward. Sometimes it seems as if I could not bear it. I wish I could strangle Todd: that would be some comfort."

"What makes you so savage against old Todd?"

"Don't you know he and Eva are engaged? All owing to the interference of that old Stunner. What business was it of hers, I wonder? And poor Eva disliking him as she does, and so unhappy about it, and I can't help her! My cursed luck, always;" and Ned heaved a brandy-and-seltzer sigh.

Yes, it was Eva. I had forgotten all she had told me about Ned, or rather she had not told me as much as he did. She sobbed on his shoulder, did she? His shoulder! disgusting! She dote on him! he comfort her! It was horrible! A sudden idea struck me. "Did you kiss her, Ned?" I asked gruffly.

"You are asking a d–d impertinent question, old fellow, and of course I sha'n't answer you;" and he tried to make his drunken face look grave.

I should have liked to throw him out of the window, but the question was, as he said, hardly one to be asked; and then, if she allowed it, what right had I—It was enough. It might be pleasant to have an affectionate wife, but no drinking gambler like Ned Hardcash should ever be able to say or remember that he had kissed the mistress of The Beauties.

I was sad at heart: hope now failed me. Poor little Eva! I must bury her image with the "wild rose," with "my star," with the "sympathizing friend." All, all are emptiness—are names, are dreams. The poets were old-fogy chaps: they never saw the women of to-day, and well for them they did not.

I am still unmated: I bear the loneliness that awaits all great excellence. The sun has no companion in glory; the moon shines alone; there was but one phoenix; the white elephant is solitary. So it must be with me. I am not misanthropic: I have learned to bear my superiority with philosophy. I was groomsman at Eva's wedding the other day, and gave her a handsome present, as it was expected I should. I still like my fellow-beings, and fulfill the duties of life to the best of my abilities. I flirt, I dance, walk, drive, pursue my usual occupations, give bachelor-parties at The Beauties, and have grown contented from habit, but I am a confirmed old—or shall I say young?—bachelor.